Unless--
by engine-driver
Summary: "Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate," says Miss Austen. "She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen . . . voluntarily to give her hand to another." But how did that happen? This is meant to be my version.
1. Unfinished

_Every time I read Sense and Sensibilty, I enjoy myself greatly until the very end. Then, I come to the same problem. The great and loyal attachment of Colonel Brandon is quickly resolved by a union to Marianne Dashwood with no real explanation of how it came about, or how Marianne, who seems fairly oblivious to him through the end of the novel, might have been prevailed upon to accept him. The movies address this gap somewhat, but with the addition of some modern fictions—a gentleman pianist is more the stuff of our century than the 18th. Except for dangerous Willoughby, who is clearly the Bohemian villain. I want to see if I can address the gap without changing the intentions of the era. The only exception is writing style. It is modern; I do not attempt to imitate Austen on more than a superficial level, as I should enjoy the process of spinning this tale less, were I wrapped up in doing so._

 _To make up for the decided lack of male artistry, I have (or intend to, in future chapters) thrown in more music in a more accepted form for the time period. It is clear from the novel that Brandon appreciated music deeply, even if he was not a musician. Also, I seize the chance to write about opera whenever I get the opportunity. Note, though, that I've taken license with history. Although the "Marriage of Figaro" was written at least 12-15 years before Sense and Sensibility takes place, the British were notoriously stuffy about accepting Italian opera in its unadulterated form, and so a true version of Mozart's opera was not performed in London until many years later._

 _There is also the matter of "Young Lochnivar", introduced in Chapter 3. Though it was written before Sense and Sensibility was published, it surely postdates Austen's first draft, and therefore is arguably an impossible object for young Marianne's romantic enthusiasm. Still, I thought the analogy too close to Brandon's history and heroic ride not to make. And since Austen clearly sketches the Colonel as her Romantic hero in disguise and since we know she read Scott, it is appropriate._

 **Chapter 1 "Unfinished" AKA "She Doesn't Have to Go Home But She Can't Stay Here"**

Miss Marianne Dashwood brushed the orange blossom petals from her lap. She had chosen—unwisely, perhaps, to wear a dull red to Edward and Elinor's wedding, and also, unwisely, to shred the decorations pinned to her sleeve. Nerves, Mrs. Dashwood would have said. Pure nerves.

And yet, Marianne was not given to nerves these days, not after she had so bravely announced that she would devote herself to instruction and study, and quietly enjoy a life with her mother and sisters inside the intimate circle at Barton Park. The reason for her resolution remained unspoken, a name—unuttered, except for one brief conversation many months earlier with Elinor.

That conversation had been quickly eclipsed by the explosion of intense joy at resolving Edward and Elinor Ferrars' long and painful mutual misunderstanding—an explosion which had its certain resolution in this day. For on this day, those happy two were to stand before God and men and announce their happiness to the world one final time. Elinor could contemplate her future near her family, at Delaford. Within such easy reach, Marianne would, she assured her, be gaining a brother rather than losing a sister.

But at this moment, Elinor's assurances rang hollow in her sister's ears. And it was this leaden weight in her belly that caused her to make short work of the bouquet before the procession had even begun.

"I do not really think those poor flowers can be saved." Marianne looked up to the shadow suddenly flung across her lap to see the grave and well-arranged Colonel Brandon.

The Colonel had been her family's friend since their arrival at Barton Park, and more lately the benefactor of Elinor and Edward. Very slowly, since the departure of her illness the previous year, he had begun to become her friend as well. His calm and constant presence, his frequent visits, and his desire to be of nothing but use to her mother and sisters, had impressed upon her the worth of his character—a worth established, it seemed, from the day Elinor had related Eliza's sordid tale. She summoned a sad smile at his awkward phrasing.

"Then let us hope Elinor will not notice," said Marianne. "She is not likely to notice much today, after all."

The Colonel nodded, the ghost of a smile creasing his eyes. Wisely, he refrained from asking Marianne what had upset her so much that she had seen fit to dissect her bridesmaid's bouquet—before the wedding, at that! Instead his solemn eyes followed her for some moments before she rose to rejoin the party waiting at Barton Church. That was nothing out of the ordinary. Indeed, Mrs. Jennings regularly remarked on how often their beloved Colonel seemed to be observing Miss Marianne with concern, even so long after her illness.

But Marianne had moved on to other things—namely, Edward and Elinor's wedding. It was not until the noise of the processional had died away and various guests and party members were milling about, arranging the relocation to Barton Park for the wedding feast, that the same dull look eclipsed Marianne again. Her eyes lost their usual sheen. Only the Colonel took note.

"Miss Dashwood, what is the matter?"

They were standing in the mud near the latter two carriages in the party. A great deal of conversation, planning, and discussion had erupted at the front of the carriage procession, partly regarding how Elinor and Edward should ride, and partly the order in which they should proceed to Barton Park. For a few moments, Marianne and Colonel Brandon were left alone, in the cold shade of a willow. She hesitated, then burst out with all her usual frankness:

"Miss Dashwood—that is exactly the matter. I am Miss Dashwood now, and Elinor will be gone to Delaford. I cannot think how I shall fare without her."

Despite her candor, Marianne was a great deal more restrained than the girl of a year ago, who had boisterously carried on with Willoughby, and even than the girl of six months ago who had nearly grieved herself into the grave. Now she seemed positively as somber as the autumn, though of course it was nothing when compared with the gravity of Colonel Brandon.

"I daresay you will not be much without her; it is not far away." The Colonel mustered hope as if he were trying to convince himself. Perhaps, in fact, he had said the same thing to himself about Marianne. Brandon did not have the air of a desperate man. He might be desperately in love with Marianne, to be sure, but an Army man knew how to check himself, and in all things the Colonel was both cautious and prudent. In fact, so completely did his reserve veil his affection from the impressionable younger Miss Dashwood, that she was oblivious to his regard. The rest of the family, of course, was not entirely convinced of his indifference.

Despite his reassuring words, however, there was a slight tremble to Marianne's hands, and she seemed pale. "You do not understand," she sighed. "The world is more idle for women. You men have important things to do. What have we? Embroidery? Painting? Barton Cottage grows tedious sometimes even with Elinor there. But we could converse, compare opinions, discuss music or art—in short, we are a world to each other. And now-" A catch in Marianne's throat cut off her discourse. The Colonel shifted his stance from one foot to the other.

"Well—" he began, hoarsely. "Delaford is not so far away." He was repeating himself, really. "She will call on you, you will call on her." Brandon sounded almost hopeful. He hesitated, then, at a sudden rise in the noise from the carriages, plunged on ahead. "And I shall call on your mother as I always have."

"Yes," said Marianne, suddenly grateful. "It is a pleasure, and you always have books for me. Books, conversation-But you cannot be there every day, as Elinor is—Was." She broke off again and her eyes showed that she was thinking of a thousand pleasant everyday conversations that they must have had over the past years.

"No, that is impossible," agreed the Colonel. "Unless-" His last word turned harsh, and he cut his speech short, as if he had suddenly thought better of what he was going to say. And besides, Mrs. Jennings was calling Marianne. In the chaos of the following moments—arranging the occupants of carriages, and the order of departures, the moment was lost. Perhaps that was fortunate, given the obvious discomfort felt by Brandon at his near-slip.

At the wedding feast in Barton, despite what must have nearly been a rather shocking confession, Marianne was sanguine. In fact, she even danced four dances with the Colonel, all while giving nary a thought to the "Unless—" that had nearly told everything, all at once. Brandon seemed on edge, his eyes lingering on her in doubt. But she was oblivious.


	2. Remembering Whitwell

**AKA "The Thing About Flannel Waistcoats"**

Barton Park had spared no effort to properly celebrate the marriage of Edward and Elinor. And that was, as had been nearly every action of Sir John Middleton and his family, a blessing to Elinor. After all, there was no other option. John Dashwood could not be expected to find it prudent to host the wedding of his eldest sister, and his wife less so; for Fanny even lamented the time and expense required to stay near Barton, and to visit the happy couple thereafter.

Lady Middleton entertained as she always did, with the utmost elegance. At the wedding dinner, candles shone from every window. The usual fall wreaths and rustic harvest decorations had multiplied and expanded to give a decided air of prosperity to the usually colorless and square great house. Greek dishes of pomegranates and gilded acorns lent an Eastern and festive touch to the décor. Everything was brown and red and gold. All was lovely, except for the parts that were disemboweled by the Middleton offspring, but such was to be expected without the Steele girls present to keep them at bay.

In the midst of all this autumn decadence, Marianne Dashwood looked particularly well. The burnished apple color of her new dress only served to contrast with her honey-colored curls. Marianne's glorious hair managed to escape its restraints in places, although it was tied up in the currently popular imitation of Grecian ladies. Her fair face, which grew steadily warmer and more flushed throughout the evening, as dinner and dances and drink commenced, surely did not elude the notice of the sober colonel.

Brandon himself had broken out of his usual constraints to be more expansive and joyous than on most occasions. Even his clothing reflected this; he wore a well-cut suit that was a warmer brown than usual, and his waistcoat, for all it might be flannel, was a rich red. It closely approached the color of Marianne's own dress, and the two could not have blended their ensembles better if they had planned it. This surely did not escape Mrs. Jennings.

"How well-aligned the Colonel and Miss Marianne are, Charlotte!" she cried. Down to the colors they choose to wear, in fact—the same dull red. They'll be in harmony before the year is out, I am sure of it!"

The dinner was interrupted throughout, by lively toasting, largely on the part of Sir John and his Army friends. Desirous of more male companionship than the Colonel, Mr. Palmer, or Edward Ferrars could offer, (he did not count the Dashwood git) Sir John had invited several of his former colleagues to Barton Park for the festivities. Two of that number were in the service still, and although they did not wear their red coats, their rigid posture and formal bearing clearly indicated their profession. After the dinner, when the dancing began, the Army men set to it with great vigor and enjoyment. Marianne approached the great fireplace, and unintentionally found herself on the fringes of conversation with the two military friends of Sir John. Major Revere, the tall ruddy one, raised a glass to her.

"Miss," he acknowledged with cheerful admiration, for any militia man would admit that the new Miss Dashwood was very agreeable to look at. He then turned back to his shorter companion, one Lieutenant Silas Eccleston, dark, handsome, and with an elegance that compensated for his lack of stature. The two were apparently catching up after some time stationed at an extensive distance.

"The Major lost his command," finished Eccleston, "and I cannot think of a fate more soundly deserved, but a pity that it came at the price of the lives of one quarter of his men."

"Indeed," agreed Revere. "An army man must be in all things prudent, and not to provide the boys with at least one piece of adequate coverage from the elements in all that wind and rain! Masters' letter said that almost half his troop came down with fever."

"As I always say," Lieutenant Silas said with a friendly nod at Marianne, "A soldier without a undercoat of wool, or at least flannel, is a fool, and very likely a dead man should the worst occur."

"Indeed. The mark of a sensible soldier. All the reasonable generals set the example. Even the wild Americans are not without that sense. They say that the Virginia rebel Washington blatantly wore a flannel waistcoat to his inauguration! However—" Revere dropped his voice—" is it really true that the Major refused to provide proper clothing for his men when the rest of the regiments did?"

"Yes—and the poor privates could not afford the added cost—" Eccleston's voice trailed off as the two Army men wandered away from Marianne. That young woman's cheeks began to burn with a slow flush as the terrible realization hit her—That very item of clothing which had led her to ridicule Colonel Brandon, was in fact, part of a respected military uniform, and the sign of good sense and prudence in any British soldier!

She swallowed hard. The rebel general there in the Americas had practically been crowned King of his new colonial nation, and he had chosen to wear flannel as an example of good sense to his subjects? Marianne's romantic side had idolized the American rebels, including the magnificent Washington, troublesome as they had been to the Empire. She still followed their progress in the evenings, when it was her habit to read Sir John's gifted newspaper. More often than she would admit, Marianne supturretiously confiscated it from the table on which Mrs. Dashwood usually laid it, unread.

Marianne walked several paces away from where they had stood, lost in thought, as her cheeks flamed ever brighter. She faced the fireplace, and looked at her shoes, seeing nothing, but hearing, as if it had been recorded for her, the harsh cuts of a memory.

It had been more than a year ago. Marianne was protesting to her mother and Elinor.

 _"Thirty-five,"_ she had said, " _has nothing to do with matrimony."_

Elinor protested, very logically, and laid out specific and well-backed arguments. Marianne had blithely sailed past them.

 _"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble."_

Now, when she thought of her words, her face flamed scarlet. She felt a little sick, and put her hand against the mantelpiece to steady herself. The music from the great room one door away swirled around her, but she was too downcast to notice. It was a mark of her juvenile lack of sense that she had so quickly made the connection between flannel and age, for after her narrow escape some months ago at Cleveland, Marianne herself had taken to wearing an extra layer of cloth beneath her gowns, which was, now that she thought of it, flannel in at least one of its examples. Besides which, she had accepted several of Elinor's knitted shawls. The chills following her illness had never quite left her, a fact that she was still ashamed to betray to anyone. Random attacks of cold and fatigue overtook Marianne on the best of days, although she pushed through them—for surely at her time of life she could not still be ill!

The worry attended by these symptoms remained unuttered, even to Elinor. Marianne held it close to her heart. She was still conscious of her unfeeling words when she remembered the manner in which she had condemned her sister's self-control. Perhaps, in some imitation of Elinor's superiority in behavior—"No. I compare it to what it ought to have been. I compare it with yours." –she was now sparing her elder sister the strain of solicitude on her behalf. However there was one other who certainly noticed. Twice now she had caught herself mid-shiver, throwing off the tiredness that assailed her now and then, and had seen the Colonel's eyes on her, grave and somber. The set of his mouth concerned her more than anything else. He looked as if he were unutterably sad, yet wished to speak.

Still, there was another day, another memory, that cut even deeper. Marianne put her hand against the mantel, in much the manner that Edward had manhandled their cottage mantel that day he had tried to explain just why he was not married to Miss Steele. She could hear the cut of Willoughby's golden voice in her memory, and she was for once not reminded of her lost love, but of her own cruelty.

 _"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to."_

 _"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne._

 _"I do not dislike him."_ Willoughby had continued later. _"I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year."_

 _"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression."_

She did not feel that way now. How could she? Nearly since the dread at the London assembly had burst on her, the colour in which she held the Colonel had shifted. He had always been stalwart. Now he became a comfort, even an ally. Marianne began to desire, stealthily, blind to it herself, his presence, almost as if Brandon were a talisman against further disappointment and betrayal. There could be no doubt that an eminent and respectable person such as he was had his uses; Marianne's mother would let her do almost anything within the bounds of propriety if the Colonel were there to supervise; and Brandon could never say no to Marianne. If she had been Margaret's age, and of higher spirits, she might have been tempted to take rather horrible advantage of him.

Every word of Willoughby's, in fact, had been false. Marianne now had a more realistic idea of the Colonel's budget. Though he was of an income exactly near what she had stated as ideal to Elinor, he had had to clear the estate of years' debts, and with only the last four years to do it in, it was a mark of his genius that he had been able to make Delaford profitable. The fact that he had done it without sign of obvious external privation spoke to his worth as an executor. Moreover, Marianne could also testify that Brandon was never idle. Between seeing to his tenants at Delaford, maintaining the estate, serving the community, business in Town, and caring for Miss Williams, he was far less at Barton than she wished him to be. There at least, he offered a her refuge from Mrs. Jennings' endless gossip and prattle.

Marianne let her eyes fall to the floor and attempted to collect her spirits, drawing back from the fire. She was still on the very edge of the room and did not wish to draw attention to herself. Her face was uncomfortably warm but she felt in danger of catching a chill, despite the warmth of her long-sleeved dress. Her reply to Willoughby on that occasion had been worse than his insults. And she was beginning to suspect—although the impression was still unformed—that the Colonel might have far more strength of feeling than she had imagined all those months ago. Perhaps he hid it nearly as well as Elinor. About Elinor she had been entirely wrong. Elinor who now on the other side of the great hall, was laughing, her head thrown back as Marianne had never seen her. She had just finished a set with Edward and looked as well as spoke, her happiness.

Marianne smiled a little, but the unfortunate memory made it difficult to struggle out of her reverie. Again, she remembered Willoughby, with more pain than pleasure:

 _"There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing."_

 _"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne._

Well she had doubt of it now. In fact, she knew it to be completely otherwise—

"Miss Dashwood."

Marianne started, guilty—and turned to face the Colonel with a conscious look.


	3. Remembering Cleveland

_Note: I am of course a very slow writer. Please review! It does help to have reviews of substance, especially critical ones. Also, it impels me to keep writing._

Chapter 3 Remembering Cleveland AKA "Young Lochnivar Has Gone Forth to the West"

The manner in which Marianne greeted the Colonel when she turned to face him on the fringes of Barton's great room served to lend truth to Brandon's suspicion that something was wrong.

"Are you well? You are overheated, perhaps."

"No, I have just been by the fire. Look,-" she gestured to the company—"They are dancing again. It is the same song as the last. Do you think Lady Middleton has noticed?"

Brandon felt a chuckle rise in his throat. It was a sensation to which he was unaccustomed, and he wondered if he sounded ridiculous.

"Very likely not." The Colonel looked at her, his expression wry. He found it less difficult, then, to hide the quick solicitude that had flickered briefly in his eyes. Instead, he was able to face the gathering assembly with considerable composure, re-directing Marianne to look at the forming minuet. It was a technique that Elinor often used. More than once, Brandon had smiled to himself when he reflected on how similar he was to the eldest Dashwood sister—in all matters except one, sensibility. On that point alone he was far more aligned with Marianne. Marianne, who was Miss Dashwood now. He forced a smile, in that halting manner he had.

"Would you do me the honor, then? After all, you already know exactly what is to come." Again, that dry humor which was concealed, less from purpose than lack of practice. And he offered her his arm.

"Of course." Marianne regarded the Colonel with some surprise, but her assent was quick, as if she wanted to depart from her former position in the room, as quickly as possible.

Brandon had hoped that the ordered music of the dance and the touch of Marianne's hand would drive away the impression brought by the sight of her flushed cheeks and too-bright eyes. But the shame of Marianne's reverie still remained in her countenance as they bowed to each other, beginning the set-and he was transported back, unwillingly, to a place he would have been satisfied to never see again—Palmer's residence, at Cleveland.

 ** _Cleveland, six months earlier (March or April)_**

The Colonel's first impression of Cleveland had taken the form of a muddy road, with the jarring impact of his horse's hooves repeating up and down his weary frame. When they slid to a stop in the gravel path surrounding the square, modern house, on their second day of travel, it was nearly nine. The Colonel handed his horse to Palmer's man, and regarded the lighted windows warily. He could desire nothing more at this moment than the comfort of his chambers and that untaxing solitude which would have greeted him at Delaford; instead he squared himself to face the noisy trial that must immediately ensue.

With many exclamations of greeting and shouts of delight, Charlotte and Mrs. Jennings, who had broken off their game of whist in expectation of the travelers, greeted them. Palmer was more expansive than usual, and he actually seemed glad to see his wife.

Mrs. Jennings, meanwhile, engaged Brandon in immediate conversation.

"I declare, Colonel," she said soundly. "You have arrived sooner than we thought, and glad I am of it! There has been nothing to talk of! Excepting the decrease in the chickens and this settled rain." Brandon, whose somewhat damp appearance attested to the rain, nodded gravely in assent. He had no more than folded his greatcoat and handed it off for safekeeping before his benefactress spirited them both off to a forcible late supper.

The occupants of the great house, who had not yet retired for the evening, remained in attendance—notably Charlotte, Mrs. Jennings, and a very squirmy Palmer baby. Brandon was pleased beyond words to see Elinor Dashwood as well. He heard the calm tones of her quiet voice before he saw her hand stretched out to him in greeting—effusive, for her. The Colonel nearly smiled then. He did not look around the room for Marianne, instinct telling him that she would have gone to her rooms.

Brandon could therefore barely attend to his indifferently warm supper when Marianne appeared in the drawing room next them; dreamy of eye and with the air of one absently wandering about the grounds. She had a book in her hand and one under her arm, which impeded her attempts to politely greet Mr. Palmer.

"I see you have found the library," said that gentleman in a terse but pleasant manner. Palmer was far more interested in his port than in his dinner.

"Yes!" said Marianne warmly. "I thank you! But-you have not many of the modern works, I see."

"I am no reader, " said Palmer.

The Colonel remained in conversation with Elinor throughout supper, who sat near him nursing a glass of cordial. He addressed not a single word to Marianne all the evening. However, Elinor noted that his eyes followed her sister as always. Brandon nearly choked on his port when Marianne greeted him from the entrance to the dining-room with a nod and a curtsey. If he was not mistaken, the compassionate manner she had begun to assume towards him those last few weeks in London remained intact. This did not, however, keep her from the same nervous wringing of hands and diffident manner that she had carried with her there.

More than her manner, however, he noted her appearance. Marianne's cheeks were warm, almost ruddy; and though she was (to him) more beautiful than ever, there was a fairly feverish cast to her complexion. He found himself grateful for the heavy rain which certainly must have kept her indoors this evening.

Soon after they all retired to the drawing room, Marianne disappeared again, and this was just as well. The Colonel could not find any solace in her restless disconsolate manner, which was, if anything, a deal more agitated than in town.

The following morning, the Colonel found himself ensconced over the remnants of breakfast, telling Elinor all the things he had forgotten the night before. A third person absorbed the majority of their conversation—Edward Ferrars, and how he would best be able to use the parsonage at Delaford. In fact, the Colonel became almost animated as he described the improvements that the new parson would find most to his use. And he was blessed with a most appreciative audience in Elinor. Twice during the morning, Brandon observed something in her eyes which nearly made him wonder just how near a friend Ferrars had been but he cast it aside as a mere sensible fancy, brought on by the unsettling presence of Marianne. The day was still damp, and SHE had nothing to do but read, and look sadly out of the windows.

Marianne's countenance continued even more ruddy than before, and a slight cough, a catch in her throat, convinced the Colonel that she was unwell. Once he asked Elinor about it, and once even, he came upon her where she sat by the fire, and wondered aloud about the state of her health. Marianne dismissed this.

"I SHALL be well if it will only stop raining! I cannot walk in this weather."

"Nor, I fancy, should you."

"If only it were a little lighter. I would—" She trailed off, then looked at him carefully. "But no matter. " Marianne sighed, and put the book in her hands aside. "I cannot even read."

Brandon guessed that she had a head-ache, and said as much. Marianne only replied that if he would read for her, the morning might not be entirely wasted. And so he found himself surprised, turning the crisp, blue-covered volume in his hands, reading Scott's _Marmion_ , verse that he had only recently seen for the first time, in London.

 _"O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,_

 _Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;_

 _And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,_

 _He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone._

 _So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,_

 _There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. "_

It was the tale of a kidnapping and elopement, and for true love at that—his voice broke as he finished, but the young Miss Dashwood did not seem to notice, and actually complimented him on the expression of his reading! It was not strange that he could take little pleasure in it, for memories too-long buried flooded him. The Colonel rose stiffly.

"Are you going already, Colonel?"

"Palmer asked me to accompany him at billiards. I fear by now I am late." A bow, and he was gone.

Almost before he had left the room, Brandon regretted it, for with the breakfast conversation quite over, he found himself parted from Marianne. The rain stopped rather suddenly around noon, and by two o'clock she was out walking. He barely saw her until late that night, when they took supper. She looked well to any but the most acute observer—there was excellent, even high, color in her cheeks. Her dark eyes seemed only slightly glassy, and she mustered enough spirit to seem healthier than her too-slight frame betrayed.

The next morning the rain was only spotty, and Marianne was soon gone from the mansion-house to wander about the grounds in solitary fashion. The Colonel found himself caught between two undesirable options: stalk the indifferent library alone or submit to Charlotte's conversation in the main drawing room. He nearly chose the latter, but wilted when he realized that the loud laughter that split his ears was at some new calamity that had befallen her hothouse and its denizens.

Again, Elinor came to his rescue, and they spent half the day lingering over tea, planning Edward Ferrar's future. The Colonel never guessed that he also might be rescuing Elinor from the solitude of her own thoughts. He did wonder, once, that the future Mrs. Ferrars was a subject that Miss Dashwood seemed content to leave alone for the present. But, no matter—if he did not believe Elinor, like her sister, incapable of subterfuge-he certainly thought her above it.

After that evening and the next, which Marianne spent walking the grounds even though all was spread in a fine mist, she looked not only better than usual, but had a strong and steady flush to her regular features. But her cough had grown stronger, and she was sniffling. When Brandon found her later the next afternoon, _Marmion_ turned downwards in her lap, shivering on the chaise in the drawing-room, his eyes narrowed in concern. Her fine dark eyes were glassy, fixed on the fire, and she made no attempt to try to read the volume in her hands. Again, the Colonel did not directly address her, his bearing as formal and stiff as ever when he came near her. But there was a dull kind of pain in his chest that he could not explain.

Unaware of the impulse before it was too late, Brandon found himself grasping the heavy wool shrug-that had been flung behind her, useless on the chaise. It rasped against his fingers as, his mouth dry, he murmured an apology and awkwardly finished the gesture, placing it firmly about her shoulders.

Marianne settled back into it with a little sigh, breath barely escaping her lips. That she did not object, did not reprimand him—no pert comment, no annoyance—truly frightened him.

"Thank you, Colonel."

He bowed, and left her sight. A moment later, he had found Elinor again.

"You do not suppose your sister very ill?"

She did not. It was nothing that sleep and simple remedies would not resolve.

But Elinor had been wrong, for the night passed without any material improvement, and before long the Palmers were driven from Cleveland, leaving the Colonel torn. Marianne was gone from his sight, for propriety's sake—his hosts had departed, and there was no earthly good he could do under these circumstances. But to leave Cleveland when Marianne might be dying! It could not be borne. Under such gloomy observances he approached Mrs. Jennings two days later, after Palmer had taken himself away.

"I am afraid I impinge too long upon your kindness, ma'am. Under these difficult circumstances—"

"Nonsense! And leave an old woman alone in the evenings? Upon my word, Colonel, I do not know what I shall do without someone to play at piquet of an evening!" The real worry in her eyes was obscured for a moment by the frankness and zeal of her manner, for she did care for the Colonel a great deal, despite him being too solemn and constrained for her tastes. "No! You shall stay with us here, for with Palmer gone, we have not a gentleman about the place!" Mrs. Jennings was determined. And so the Colonel stayed.

"And who, I should like to know, " she said to Elinor later, "is to assist in case of an emergency, if not so steady a fellow as Colonel Brandon?"

To say that the Colonel was comforted by his role as guardian of Cleveland would be too much. He spent far too many solitary hours in the library and the drawing-room downstairs, and Mrs. Jennings was too gloomy on the subject of Marianne's prospects for his ruminations to do him anything but harm. Brandon found himself pacing the floor late at night, for sleep fled from him whenever he was with company. At Delaford it was his habit to retire early, since sleep beckoned when one had no family or friends to while away the evenings. However, when a guest, the Colonel was wakeful, his energy high-although his manner never betrayed it.

Now, he fell an easy prey to pessimism, the discarded _Marmion_ in the drawing-room reminding him both of his futile history with Eliza and the sad state of its owner. He was looking into the dying fire, his own Spencer forgot in his hands, when Elinor burst in.

A few words sketched the situation out in all of its dire nature. Marianne's mother must be sent for-she was far too ill-it might already be too late. The lines in Brandon's face became deeper as she spoke, and he deliberately put his book down and rose to his feet, restless. His feelings were not to be expressed.

"If you would send your man, Colonel-I am sure-"

"No. I will go, myself."

"Colonel—surely not—it is late, and you will be alone—"

When was he not alone? He overcame her objections in a few sentences, and was gone as soon as he could, the remembrance of Marianne's flushed face etched into his memory as possibly the last time he should see her.

Brandon was thankful that propriety had kept him from the sight of her sickchamber—of the delirium that certainly had succeeded. Once before, long ago, he had been the recipient of such sights—with no staying older person such as Mrs. Jennings to intercede-or speak of propriety or decorum or what ought to be. It had not mattered. The Colonel would have stayed at Eliza's side regardless. But his unselfish love had been the means of searing those memories into his soul, and now thus damaged, he could not regret that Elinor and not he, had been forced to endure it. She it was who had been made to watch the ebb and flow of life force that invariably accompanied the mortal struggles of one so dear.

The beat of the horse's feet had echoes of Scott in its rhythm. Brandon tried to push it from his mind, unsuccessfully—

 _"He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,_

 _He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; "_

No. He would not think of that now. Think instead, of guns in the early morning air, of the sun rising over the Indian Ocean, of hot cardamom tea, of cold English marshes, of Marianne's fine eyes—of anything but the charges he had failed, the ways he had fallen short. But still Scott's tetrameter held him—

 _So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,_

 _Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?_

He must not fail her now. Oh, tell him not that he was too late.

 ** _Barton Park, Elinor's wedding (September/October)_**

The strains of music had died away, and Marianne was regarding him now, at the end of their dance, with curious eyes. She seemed quite to have recovered the lack of composure she had betrayed at the beginning of the set.

"Colonel!" she exclaimed. "I declare, you have drifted away—and, in the middle of a dance, no less. Am I such a poor partner as that?" Brandon managed a half-smile, but he realized that as always, he had let gravity get the best of him.

"Not at all, Miss—Miss Dashwood. And you—you look quite well. All that was wanted was a bit of dancing, it seems."

He only half-lied. Her skin was as brown as it ever had been, her dark eyes quite as bright, and her manner nearly as lively. She had never quite regained the flesh she had lost during her illness, but with slightly different styles of arranging clothing-heavier fabrics and more gathers—Marianne now managed to disguise her slighter build tolerably well. The Colonel, however, had noticed every change.

It was, after all, a game to which Brandon was well accustomed. He had never recovered his former build after those years in the East Indies, and it had become his habit to wear heavy fabrics and gathered clothing—he was particularly fond of well-cut, thickly constructed shirts and greatcoats—to disguise the notion that he was too thin, that he did not quite approach the stoutness of a true English gentleman.

Marianne smiled at him, and he forgot every coherent thought in his head.

"Look at Elinor! She seems quite happy, don't you think? And Edward! One never would have known there was a Lucy Steele."

"Perhaps there had to be a Miss Steele for Edward to know the true measure of his happiness," said the Colonel. Marianne looked at him, startled for a moment at this insight.

"Perhaps," she said quietly, looking inward for a moment. Then, she suddenly cast a look at him sideways. "And now you will have Elinor at Delaford."

"Indeed," said the Colonel. "You shall simply have to come and see her."

He forced his gaze to stay on her a few more seconds than was comfortable, and he managed a smile. Then, Brandon returned to Mrs. Jennings' company, his pulse pounding in his ears.


End file.
